


Waiting for Lightning to Strike

by dimeliora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sam never met Jess at Stanford, and all he had was time to think about what he left behind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for Lightning to Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I write has a soundtrack. I usually don't push, because music is very particular, but I'm imploring you to try out the song this was written to at least once. It's called "A Girl, A Boy, and A Graveyard" and it's by Jeremy Messersmith. It didn't just inspire this story it played on repeat for the entire writing process. Also, it's where the title comes from.

 

 

 

The night Sam Winchester tells his family he's leaving goes almost exactly how he expected it to. Dad yells. Dad yells a lot. Sam wasn't quite thinking he'd be exiled, but he was ready for the rest of it. The accusations of being ungrateful, the invocation of his dead mother, the insults to his abilities and character. It's not like he expected his father to be proud of him, not like he expected John Winchester to see his point but maybe, _just maybe_ , he thought there would be a glimmer of it. A twinkle of something at the realization that his son had earned a full ride to one of the best schools in the country. _Something_. Because for Sam it had always been about blood and family. That was what he was taught, and it had to mean something that John's blood, his offspring, was being recognized for being smart and capable. For being something other than a walking encyclopedia of weird. That part never came though. So Sam joins the fight, because that's what he does, and Dean stands back and watches the whole thing with his hands half up like a referee afraid to call the fight. Afraid to step in and get punched. Or worse.

  

Sam feels for Dean in that moment. He really does. Underneath the sting of knowing that Dean wants Sam to relent, to give in and give up, there's the understanding that Dean is just doing what Dean does. Trying to hold them together in a situation where they were never meant to be. No family can stay together under the sort of pressure they've been dealing with. Not the Cleavers, not the Bradys, and certainly not the damn Winchesters. Which doesn't make it any less painful when he catches the look of betrayal on Dean's face. He wants Dean to be happy for him. He doesn't expect it from dad, but he _wants_ it from Dean. Instead he gets this look, and that makes him fight dad harder. Makes him push to get further and further away. As fast as he possibly can.

 

Dad leaves for the bar and Dean comes in as Sam is packing his duffel for the last time. He has enough stuff to fill it three-fourths of the way up, and there's the chance that with this move he might need two duffels one day. Hell, he's going to Stanford, make it three. Time to go crazy. He's rolling his socks as Dean clears his throat and leans against the doorway.

 

"When do you have to leave?"

 

It's the first thing Dean has said since he and dad started fighting, since before the final shout that if Sam is going to leave it better be for good, and Sam's ok with all of it. Even the broken and hollow sound of Dean's voice.

 

"Well, since I'm walking to the bus station? About fifteen minutes." There are enough miles to cover on foot that he'll get there about an hour before his ride leaves. That's long enough. He can do this, and he's fine. Sam is fine.

 

Except then Dean's hands cover his and he realizes he's shaking so badly he hasn't even gotten those socks rolled together. Rough fingers brush the skin of his cheeks and he sees the liquid on them. He's crying and shaking. When the hell did that start up? Then Dean's pulling him into his arms and Sam lets him. Goes willingly into Dean's warm and familiar scent and breaks down. Because this is Dean, and if there's anyone who can see the extent of Sam's devastation it's him. No one else is allowed to get this close. No one else will ever be allowed to get this close. Sam knows it in his very bones.

 

It takes a while to realize somehow they're on the floor, Sam clinging onto Dean like it's his brother threatening to walk out on everything they've ever had together. Like it's Dean slipping away in the middle of the night like a thief instead of Sam. Which is probably what leads Sam to tilt his face up and press his lips softly against Dean's jaw, mouth his way up to those lips he's been staring at his whole life.

 

There's an edge of desperation about all of it, and whether Dean wants it or if it's just a sacrifice he makes to make Sam happy Sam may never know. Dean will never tell him, and Sam will never ask. It's how they've gotten along so well all these years. But it's Dean, and that's all Sam wants. All he needs. They stay like that for a long time, Sam's lips pressing sloppily against Dean's and Dean holding him like he's something fragile and precious.Sam doesn't have a lot of moments to use for comparison, but this is less of a kiss and more of shared space. As if this will keep them together. But Sam's not family anymore. Sam's been disowned, and all he can do now is taste the things he can never have. He licks against Dean's lips and his brother lets him, lets him taste, and fingers twine into his hair and hold on tight until Sam's not sure anymore who's desperate and who's giving in. All he knows is the warmth of Dean and the taste and the slick sliding of tongues and lips.

 

When it ends Dean leans his forehead against Sam's and they breathe the same air for a bit as they try to slow down. To calm down. Then Dean pulls him up and they get into the car without a word and drive to the bus station. Dean sits beside him until his ride arrives. They stay like that, silent and holding onto each other as the world falls apart around them. This is it. This is the last time and Sam knows it. Dean's strong enough to bring him here, to hold him up, but not strong enough to turn on their father. Sam wants to ask him to come. To stay with him, but that's an untenable dream. It'll never happen, and Sam's taken enough from Dean without asking him to do that. To take away the illusion that Dean has some control. So instead they stay like that, and when the bus comes Sam gets on and he doesn't look back. The last thing his brother says before they let go of each other, before Sam's fingers slip out of Dean's with a sound like a heart shattering, is simply, "If you need me." He doesn't need to say more. Sam knows the rest, and he knows Dean means it. He hopes he'll never need to use that promise though.

 

 

 

\----

 

 

 

The first year at Stanford goes better than he could have ever imagined. His roommate is a weird cross between a raver and a hippie, and Sam rarely ever sees the guy. He wakes up some mornings to the smell of patchouli and pot, but that's ok. He hates patchouli, but really, _it's ok_. He doesn't need more than the privacy afforded by his roommate's constant partying and unconsciousness. He has his own shitty narrow bed, and his own half of the room, and Barry is really good about recognizing personal space despite all his other faults. Sam's stuff fits perfectly into the little closet they've given him, and he lets all of it hang in one place and never repacks any of it. The novelty of that simple act is so much that the fourth week Sam's there he sits in front of the closet and simply stares at his hanging clothes for over an hour. Barry thinks he's stoned, and that's alright too. He gets fewer sideways glances, and his status as a non-narc is firmly established.

 

His professors love him. He's everything they need him to be, and years of experience let him know that he needs to seem shy and small-town with his Psych-101 doctor, outspoken and exuberant with the Grad student handling his Rhet/Comp class, and unsure but hopeful with his Algebra and Poli Sci professors. He handles each of them with the same care he once had for grieving widows and sad-eyed children. They're about the same. Sam perfects the chameleon in a way he never thought he could. Where before there was a twinge of guilt being someone he is not now he is everyone. His classmates like him, his professors like him, and the lady that watches him spend the majority of his free time in the library loves him. He's a lovable guy. His papers are always on time, in perfect format, and impeccably edited. His homework assignments are turned in at the beginning of every class and are always neat, he raises his hand in class, and he takes part in every discussion.

 

He gets a job at a coffee shop slightly off campus. Uses public transportation to go from place to place and gets to know William the bus driver like they're old friends. He smiles, smiles all the time, and people meet his eyes and greet him by name. He joins a small study group of friends, and they meet on Tuesdays and Fridays in one of the rooms in the upper floor of the library. There's a girl named Nina who bakes brownies and cookies and she brings them to meetings. They're always a little overly sugary, and Sam eats at least two every time and moans like they're bakery perfect. He's pretty sure she's a little in love with him. His midterm grades are perfect, and he couldn't be better. Really Sam just couldn't be better.

 

Three weeks before finals Sam gets drunk and finds himself in the middle of the quad with his phone in one hand and an empty beer in the other. There's a guy sitting on the bench beside him talking at a rapid rate about the economic downturn and how important it is to vote. His phone has an empty text message addressed to Dean, and he fingers the buttons as a hand trails across his knee and then settles slowly onto the patella. He feels it squeeze, trail up, voice still droning on as he types out a message.

 

_I am drunk.. Where are yu?_

 

He doesn't expect an answer. Doesn't really want one. They haven't spoken since he left and there's no reason to. Sam is no one. Sam is everyone. The guy beside him has managed to get his fingers up Sam's thigh, and Sam doesn't say anything. Doesn't fight. Why should he? This is how he can make this guy happy, and making other people happy makes Sam happy. It's all alright. Sam is alright. He can't hunt, can't help them get revenge for his poor dead mother, but he can make other people happy. Isn't that enough? His phone beeps and he flips it open. The Econ major doesn't notice.

 

_Tacoma. You should be studying. Everything alright?_

 

Is it? Of course it is. Except all Sam wants right at this moment is the feeling of Dean's rough fingers and soft lips. How warm he was, and how gentle his hands were in Sam's hair. Instead he's got a sloppy mouth working its way up his neck.

 

_Fine. Getting molested. I hate econ talk._

 

The reply comes faster than Sam could have ever expected. It's as if Dean read the message before Sam sent it and was already typing a response.

 

_Go home. Alone._

 

And he does. Because sure it's important to get along with people and not rock the boat, but it's more important not to upset Dean. Dean is…

 

He can't do it. He pushes the guy off of him and staggers his way back to his room. Barry isn't there, and Sam crashes into his own bed and grips his suddenly raging hard-on. He's half-way there, stroking himself urgently when the phone beeps again. He flips it one one-handed as he uses his thumb to rub the bundle of nerves under the head.

 

_Home safe?_

 

He can hear Dean asking in his head. See the green eyes and the pink lips, jaw tight with concern and stubble lightly dusting it. Or maybe Dean's clean-shaven with a little nick under the chin in that spot his hand always slips on, and light bruising around his eye from a monster's attack. Either way Dean's hands are always steady and strong, and they always touch Sam gently. Capable of the greatest feats of violence and strength, but never with Sam. _Never with Sam_. It's the story of their lives.

 

He comes like a freight-train and then rubs his clean hand over his tearing eyes.

 

_Miss you._

 

It's not an answer. In the old days Dean wouldn't settle for it. He'd demand to know how Sam was really feeling. Where he was, if he needed to kill said Econ major, and any other number of incredibly personal pieces of information because Sam belongs to Dean. Dean's always known it, and in this moment Sam know it too. Sam belongs to Dean, and what the fuck is he doing in Palo Alto, California when Dean is in Tacoma? Why isn't he there wrapped up in Dean's arms and being held where he can be safe and loved.

 

Sam doesn't remember his revelation in the morning.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, and Easter all pass uneventfully. Sam gets more tips than any other barista at the coffee shop, and he uses them along with what little money he gets in his change check to buy a crappy second-hand Honda. He's not even sure why, the busses go everywhere he needs to go, but he does. He uses every trick he learned from Dean to keep the stupid thing running, and that's enough. His second year begins with  a bang. Barry comes back from summer break a card-carrying Republican NRA member. He shows Sam both of his new handguns and then goes on at length about how to clean, load, aim, and use them. He utters no fewer than four slurs against minorities. Looking back on it Sam realizes this was the cry for help. Barry is Mexican-American after all, and his sudden hatred towards immigrants doesn't make much sense. On the third week of their fall semester Sam comes back to his dorm room and finds Barry slumped into his tiny bed, the back half of his skull blown off.

 

The school insists Sam needs counseling, and he dutifully goes. He tells the counselor everything he's supposed to. Nightmares, very sad, how terrible, what a waste of precious life. They pass him with a clean bill of mental health and make him take a new room assignment with another roommate. This time he gets a neurotic young man with a germ phobia. Sam has trouble remembering his name, but he agrees to use the copious amounts of disinfectant the roommate puts out. Agrees to everything with a smile and just keeps on going. it doesn't even bother him that he loses the nice view of grass and trees, and now his window faces another brick building and a whole lot of nothing. His grades are still excellent, his new professors love him, and they're considering him for management at the coffee shop. Life is amazing.

 

Dean never calls or texts. But Sam is alright.

 

Sam gets a paper nominated for an award, wins it, and drinks at a bar with his study group. Nina has given up on him and moved on to another guy in the group, so Sam spends a lot of his celebratory night alone in the booth as his friends dance together. He prefers it that way. Halfway through the night his phone vibrates, and Sam pulls it out and eyes the name for one disbelieving second before flipping it open.

 

_Congrats on the award Sammy. You did good._

 

It takes a few minutes to figure out, but then Sam has it. Dean is checking the Stanford website. Dan is looking in on him. Suddenly Sam's face is warmer than it should be and he casts a surreptitious glance around before he fumbles a response.

 

_Celebrating at a Yuppie bar. You'd hate it._

 

He fingers the phone and drains the last of his beer before Louise slams into him and pushes a shot into his hand. He takes it and watches her hips sway slow and rhythmic as Mark pulls her back onto the dance floor and nuzzles into her neck. It must be great, to be young and in love.

 

_Not if you were there._

 

Sam licks his lips once, waves his hand for another beer, and then takes a long pull and musters up all his drunken courage.

 

_You could be here_.

 

Dean never responds.

 

Sam takes his finals, gets ready for the short break, and tells his supervisor he's staying for this holiday season too so there's no reason to worry. The guy applauds his work ethic, and Sam shrugs smilingly. "Way I was raised."

 

And it's true. Truer than most of the bullshit he says to them. He was raised to be helpful, but his help came with a price tag. Death, loss, madness. All of it intrinsically woven into Winchester interest until all they really stood for was revenge. Until they were like harbingers of doom. If they couldn't get it for Mary they'd get it for anyone they ran into in the meantime. It occurs to Sam that what he's been doing since he got here is some kind of twisted compilation of all the training he ever got and his urge to _not be dad_. He's in his second year, almost finished with it really, and he's still undeclared. He came here because he wanted a future. Wanted to make something of himself instead of being made into something. Being a hunter is all good and well, but it was only supposed to last until they got the demon. What then?

 

Dean has no real life skills other than his talent with fixing cars. He rushed his way to being old enough to take the G.E.D., and all his interests lie with dad's plot against the forces of darkness. With revenge. Revenge isn't a business though, and Sam knows it. When it's over, when the demon is dead and the world is still moving around the sun and time is still passing what then? Someone in their family needs to be able to make money, to take care of themselves and maybe the others, and Sam wants to be the one. Wants to be able to offer security to Dean in a way dad never did. Sure, maybe it's a stupid idea. Maybe Dean won't want to quit after they kill the demon, or maybe he'd balk at the idea of Sam finally taking care of his stubborn ass for once, but it's a dream. Sam's allowed to dream too right? Allowed to have an ideal world for them to live in.

 

He pictures it sometimes while he's studying for finals and typing out endless papers. Dean kicked back on the porch of a small house with a big yard, feet up on the railing and drinking a beer beside Sam. Wearing pants without holes in them, and socks that are less than two years old. Dean without those lines on his face, the ones that don't belong on someone so young. Dean relaxing as the sun sets, and nothing coming for them. No more frantic salt line checks, no more panicky running in the middle of the night, and no more lying to police about identities and intentions. Just two guys living out peaceful lives somewhere quiet and easy.

 

Sam holds that dream close all through the summer after his second year. Runs it over and over in his head as he adds shots of mocha and regulates foam.

 

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

California has basically two weather modes. Nice, and not as nice. Sam spent most of his young life tooling through the Midwest, and some days he longs for lightning and thunder. For a snowstorm, and the feeling of being locked inside as the wind cuts through people's bones and screams against a rickety roof. At least he used to, but he's in his third year now and mostly what he thinks about is what he's going to do with his degree. He's declared Pre-Law because the Political Science classes attached to it are easy, and the professors are especially fond of him. He's made a name for himself in the department, and he moves easily from class to class. His roommate is still wearing a face mask, bird or swine flu Sam can't remember, and he seems to have become even more nervous if that is actually possible. Sam rolls with it. He's barely there anyway.

 

He goes to his study group which has grown to fifteen people. All of them are budding future lawyers and judges. All of them like to think they'll be the one that lives out the good parts of a John Grisham novel. Sam has yet to read a single John Grisham novel…

 

In fact other than required texts Sam doesn't read anything. He doesn't check his email unless he knows he's gotten something from a professor, and he never _ever_ looks at a newspaper. Instead he spends his time studying and serving coffee. He's turned down the managerial position. It would require too many hours, and his studying would take a hit. They give him extra hours anyway, and it takes two weeks for Sam to realize he's not sleeping enough. The only reason he figures it out is when his phone vibrates and he looks down to see a new message from Dean. It's the first thing he's gotten since the awards night, and the first time he's conversed with Dean sober since the night he left.

 

_Go to bed_. 

 

Sam stares at it for a long time, and then he realizes something incredibly stupid. That thumping jittery feeling? That's his pulse rate tripling and his stomach moving. That's emotion, and it's the first time he's felt it since the awards night. In fact he count the number of honest emotions he's had since he came here on one hand. Almost all of them are attached to text messages from Dean. It doesn't matter if Dean knows he's sleep-deprived because he's tucked away somewhere spying but not making contact, or if he simply knows because he's _Dean_ and he can do that.

 

It's not that Sam has avoided all forms of emotional human contact. He's gone on dates with fellow students that have asked him. He's got what are loosely called friends. He's got a life here, and that's what he's supposed to have. What he came for. He's on the fast track to a degree, and he knows without a doubt he'll ace the LSATs and be fine. He can have it all. All the things he came here for.

 

He'll leave with a degree, and he'll be an independent adult, and that's what is supposed to matter. It really is. He can have all those things, and he will. So Sam goes to bed, because somehow Dean knows how run down he is. Knows what he needs even if his block-headed brother can't figure out what it is Sam _wants_. That's good enough. Sam is alright.

 

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

 

One week later Sam finishes the paperwork and packs his duffel in the trunk of the old Honda. There's still only enough stuff to fill it up three quarters of the way to full, and Sam laughs at that. Laughs at his roommate, and seriously what is the guy's name? Laughs at everything. It's honest, deep in his stomach, and it feels good. He sends off a message, and then doesn't bother waiting. Instead he points the car east and starts out. The air is heavy, oppressive, until he reaches the border of California and then the roads open up. He travels through days of desert, rolls down through mountains, and then comes out on the other side. The Midwest spreads out in front of him in the perfect pastoral picture. The skies are gray, heavy with rain, and Sam finds himself laughing again.

  

He travels along the same road up and down, his savings being slowly consumed in diner food, motel rooms, and gas as the highway unfurls in front of him and the storms seem to chase him. Some numberless set of days later just outside of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma he gets out of the car on the side of the road next to a cow field and stands under the open sky. Waits for the storm to crack, and then lets the rain pour over him. He sits on the trunk of the car and watches lightning fork in the distance, closes his eyes and counts until the thunder rolls, and then breathes deep and slow. There's still no response from Dean, but that's ok. It's all going to be ok now.

 

It took too long, and Sam realizes that, but really how else could he get here? Yeah, Stanford could give him everything he wanted. It could give him security, it made him realize he was a person separate from John Winchester without his having to demand it or ask for it, and it taught him a lot about the civilized world he'd never been a real part of. Stanford has smoothed down the rough edges, drained off some of the excess anger, and given him a better view. Had he have stayed he would have been able to do anything, and that's a heady prospect. Still there's one thing that Stanford couldn't give him. _Dean_.

 

Dean wasn't ready to be some guy sitting on a porch drinking a beer. Dean wasn't ready to let the world drag slowly around him. Dean may never be ready for that, and Sam can't ignore that fact anymore. He can't just roll on and pretend that his brother will ever be anything other than what he is. That's not the revelation though. Not necessarily. It's that Sam _likes_ that about Dean. Likes that his brother wants to keep getting thrown through windows and ducking the cops. Likes that Dean wants to put everything on the line for people they've never met. It's about revenge for _dad_ , and Sam has always hated that. Hated the revenge angle because it seemed so petty and shortsighted. Because it seemed so fruitless. It was never really about that for Dean.

  

Which isn't to say Dean doesn't want revenge, or that he wouldn't fight to his last breath to see the death of the demon that took mom. Sure, Dean wants his pound of flesh just like Sam does. But if that was off the table, if it had never been a part of the equation, _if, if, if_ …

 

Dean would do it anyway. Sam's crazy, headstrong, selfless brother would do all of it, suffer all of it, if it meant helping just one little boy or one grieving widow. Given the choice Dean wouldn't walk away because Dean is a hero, and Sam couldn't see that. All he saw was the reaction, the end of the equation, and without the entirety of it he judged his brother and judged him badly. He walked away because he needed to be his own person apart from his family's vendetta, and now he's coming back because there's no other life. No picket fence, no porch, no fancy office with a mahogany desk and a tight-bodied secretary. Not for him.

 

Sam belongs to Dean. He can remember the feeling so vividly it's like he's there again. The rain is starting to slacken but Sam barely notices as he starts to laugh again. It feels _good_. It feels _right_. He's spent the last three years trying to find a home, trying to find a life, and the whole time it was wandering around the country in a black 1967 Chevy Impala, wearing a leather jacket and getting its ass kicked. And Sam? Sam is fucking sick of it. Sick of being the person they all need him to be, and sick of trying so hard to fit in and be perfect, and sick of trying to be something he's not. Trying to be something apart and lonely. He and Dean are a pair, a team, and as dysfunctional as it is that's all there is to say about it.

 

When the storm has finished, the lightning still occasionally breaking the sky off in the distance, Sam crawls back into his car. He's not worried about the upholstery getting soaked. This is temporary. All of it is temporary. His phone is flashing and he picks it up and finds the message waiting for him.

 

_Elkins, AR. Why?_

 

His finger rubs the screen briefly as he pushes open the atlas and starts skimming his eyes over highways and backroads. It'll take a little while, but he's not too far away. He can be there, and soon.

 

_Stay there_. _I'm coming home_.

 

He starts the car and doesn't worry about Dean's response. It takes hours, and he drives back into the same storm he just sat through, but he doesn't care. The car has started making a strange clunking sound he can just hear over the sound of the pounding rain and the road underneath. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters because Sam is waking up. Sam is coming back to life.

 

How could he have thought it was alright? To stay there and be numb, to pretend, to hide? He's coming alive with every mile closer he gets, and when the car gives a shuddering wrench in his hands and a hideous metal on metal grinding he simply stops it and gets out. He grabs the duffel, and then types out a message as he shoulders his bag and heads back into the rain.

 

_Walking on 16. Be there soon._

 

The rain is driving into his eyes, his shoes are probably ruined, and Sam doubts there's any inch of him dry enough for his phone or any other electronics to have survived. It doesn't matter. Headlights swoop past him, but Sam just hikes the bag higher on his shoulder and keeps moving. Every now and then the highway's shoulder crumbles under feet and he stumbles in the wet grass before he finds his footing. The storm gets louder, more urgent, and then hot hands are on his elbows and spinning him around.

 

In the glare of the spotlights Sam recognizes the outline of his brother. More muscular than when Sam left, but the same angle of jaw and the same spiky military cut hair. Broad strong shoulders Sam has dreamed of, and rough stable fingers digging into the bones of Sam's elbows. _Dean._

 

He's in his brother's arms before he can even get his mouth to start moving. He didn't realize he was cold until Dean is there, and then he's stammering and chattering everything out in the middle of a raging storm as Dean strokes his back and tries to hug the fucking air out of him.

 

"I can't-can't do this. Can't live wi-without you and I-I just-just-"

 

Dean gets him in the Impala without a word, and Sam feels the leather jacket draped around him as his brother puts the heater on full and roars off the shoulder of the highway. They reach the crumbly little motel Dean is holed up in moments later, and Sam's teeth are chattering too hard for him to even try to speak. The heat only seems to tell him that his toes are frozen solid and his fingers fumble with the door handle until Dean is there opening the door and taking him out. He's led into the room and then stripped. Dean's fingers are sure and swift as they unbutton all his layers and drop them sopping and heavy on the floor even as he's leading Sam into the bathroom. He stands still and watches as Dean turns the water on, tests it with one hand, and then sheds his own clothes.

 

Then he's being practically lifted and placed under the stream of hot water before Dean joins him. It doesn't take long for Sam to heat up enough to form real sentences, and Dean's eyes are heavy and dark, but amused as he waits for Sam to try again.

 

"I don't want to be a lawyer or a CEO or any of that shit Dean. I want to be here. I want to be yours. I'm yours right?" It sound desperate, plaintive, and Sam hates that. In his head there's a logical argument, a series of events for why they should do this. Why it's the only way for them, because they're ruined for anyone or anything else. How much he admires what Dean is, what Dean is capable of, and how he's only alive when Dean is there. Only alive because Dean is. Instead he sounds like a petulant child begging for love and approval.

 

Which seems to be ok, because Dean's eyes crinkle up at the corners and he shows a mouthful of bright white teeth as he grabs Sam's hips and pulls him close. Sam can feel everything from this position. The taut quality of Dean's muscles, the long heavy length of his erect cock, and the roughness of calluses and scars. The friction and the water are doing something, and Sam feels dizzy with it. With the sudden onslaught of sensation and emotion.

 

"Yeah Sammy. You're mine." Then those lips are claiming him, one hand tangled in his soaking hair and pulling his mouth down so that they're connected. Sharing breath and life as they grip onto each other and block out the rest of the world. The storm is raging outside, but inside they're twining tongues and running hands. Relearning every inch of each other's skin in the muggy heat of the shower. At some point Dean's hand wraps around his cock and Sam's moaning into the crook of his brother's shoulder as Dean supports him and speeds him towards orgasm. Except Sam doesn't want it that way.

 

He pulls back enough to twine his fingers with Dean's and lead them down and down until they're rubbing against the crack of his ass and there can be no question as to what it is Sam wants. Dean nods once, teeth digging into his lower lip as he considers Sam through lust blackened eyes. He uses conditioner to slick up his fingers and then explores and tests angles until he gets one wriggled inside. The pressure is new, odd, and Sam likes it. Likes knowing that they're so wrapped up in each other there's no telling where they're supposed to end.

 

Dean works his way in slow, one finger becoming two and then three as they twist and stretch. The burn is more pleasant then before, and the heated words Dean prints in Sam's skin with each kiss and bite drive him further and further into the cool tiles as he scrambles against Dean's slick skin for purchase. It takes a while to realize the words are important. "Sammy. Oh fuck Sammy I missed you. Missed you and I-Jesus just wanted this. Wanted you. Thank you. Fuck, thank you."

 

Then Sam's turning around, pressing his hands against the back walls of the shower and feeling the cool air hit him as Dean's body blocks off most of the spray of water and looms behind him. He bends and invites, and the fingers slip from him and leave him feeling empty until the head of Dean's cock nudges against his entrance. He lets out one low moan, "Do it." Then Dean's pushing, stretching, and the burn is back but it's so good. The pain is grounding, centering, and Dean slips in one inch at a time with short and shallow thrusts until he's fully seated and holding still while he breathes against Sam's rapidly cooling skin. The water's hitting his ankles, and he can feel Dean's wiry pubic hair rubbing against his ass cheeks, Dean's fingers gripping his hips so tight, and Dean's cock pressing against him so deep inside that Sam knows he'll be feeling this for days.

 

They stay there for some endless amount of time. Then Sam's gripping the wall with one hand and reaching around to grab Dean's ass as best he can with the other. "Fucking move Dean." And Dean does. The drag and stretch, the burn, and then Dean's thrusting in earnest and Sam's crying out and moaning as Dean picks up a rhythm that Sam knows well. It's the beat of Dean's heart, the rapid push pull of their whole lives, and Sam is alive. Painfully, electrically alive, and Dean is there with him. They move together, and Dean finds a way to wrap one callused hand around his cock and stroke. Twisting and slipping along his length, wrist flicking at the head, fingers pulsing rhythmically up and down the vein. Dean's other hand shifts against his shoulder blade and Sam bends just a bit, widens his stance, and then Dean's hitting just right against his prostate and the world blurs in and out of existence.

 

It's perfect, hot and hard, and Sam can't form words he can just moan and cry as he twists on the end of Dean's dick. He's thrusting back and forth, torn between getting Dean back to the spot and fucking Dean's tight fist. Not sure which is giving the better sensation, and then Dean sinks teeth into the muscles of his neck and Sam comes screaming, hands sliding on the plastic shower wall and finding no purchase. He can feel Dean pumping into him, emptying, and then they stand there in the steam and the water just panting and holding on.

 

Somehow they manage to turn the water off, to get dry, and to tumble into bed together without tripping or stumbling over anything. Sam feels like overcooked noodles in stacked ziploc bags, and he twines himself into Dean's space in the bed and links their fingers together even if it's girly and he's going to get made fun of for it eventually. Because, honestly, at the moment he could care less.

 

For a moment, brilliant and crystal clear, Sam pictures a field trip he took to a planetarium when he was twelve. Dean signed the permission slip for him because dad was on a hunt, and then he followed the bus in the Impala and sat outside the building the whole time to make sure Sam got there and left safely. He thought Sam didn't know, and Sam never told him he'd spotted him. He couldn't remember the city, or the teacher's name, but in the lobby of the building there'd been a model of the universe that moved on preset tracks. He remembers staring up at it in the drafty and echoing lobby, feet planted firmly on the dirty carpet as bored kids poured around him like river water. Watching the planets weave effortlessly around the big lit sun in the center and how amazing it was to imagine so many disparate elements being so in sync, so perfectly coordinated that they could move apart and together but never crash. Never fall.

 

That's what this is like, and like an idiot he tells Dean that. That the two of them are like the universe, and that together they can work just fine, but when they get off track everything comes crashing down and blows up. It surprises him when Dean leans over, places a soft kiss on his temple, and then grunts his agreement.

 

 

 

\----

 

 

 

Two weeks later they're on the back of the Impala, each holding a beer and staring up at the stars. Sam's ribs are sore and loudly reminding him he's an idiot, but the Nixie is dead and the people of Leesworth, Kentucky are safe for another day. They've spent the last two weeks together not talking about the time Sam spent at Stanford, or Dean's loneliness, but the effects of it are written in the lines of Dean's face and the way Sam can't stop touching Dean. They get two doubles every night and then fall into the one away from the door together. At this point Sam's pretty sure they've worn out all the classic positions, and that Dean is starting to draw from the _Karma Sutra_. Nobody should know so much about sexual positions, and if it wasn't Sam's ribs complaining it would be his thighs. Still, it's worth every minute because this is what he's been wanting. What he's been _needing_.

 

Dean, without a word, links his fingers into Sam's and grips tightly for a second before releasing. He takes a long pull from his beer, and then points up into the starry sky. "Hey Sam. Remember that thing you said about us and the universe?"

 

"Yeah. What about it?" Here it comes. _Samantha_ or some such bullshit. Sam's too tired and heady to care anyway, but he eyes where Dean's shoulder is in the dark just in case he needs to throw a punch.

 

"I'd put you in the middle of that. The sun I guess."

 

Sam presses one hand against his eyes and then punches Dean's shoulder anyway. "Shut up."


End file.
